


Three Men Passing Through

by mcicioni



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen (romantic and sexual m/m relationships implied), M/M, reunion story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 19:51:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16898865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/pseuds/mcicioni
Summary: At different times, three men arrive at, and leave from, a small village in North Carolina.





	Three Men Passing Through

**Author's Note:**

  * For [robotboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/robotboy/gifts).



> 1\. Thanks to everyone who read and commented on the language and contents of this story.
> 
> 2\. The language reflects prevailing 18th-century attitudes to disability.

The October fog lingers around the tops of the two trees in the front yard. They are quickly losing their leaves: every morning, Judith’s first job is to get the broom and sweep up mounds of yellow, red and brown off the steps of the inn. She looks up towards the Blue Ridge Mountains; she has spent all her life within sight of them, and the mountains, the village of Markham’s Cross and the farms around it are the limits of her world.

Her second job is to light the fire in the range, go to the well and fill the big kettle. Every morning, tea must be made in the common room for the occasional guests from the two rooms upstairs: wandering tradesmen and merchants, or anyone travelling east to Bath County and the ocean, or north to Virginia. Today there are no guests and there won’t be any travellers: just a boring run-of-the-mill day, with little or no business, with little or no news from whatever there is outside Markham’s Cross.

Judith is not unhappy about that. A twenty-six-year-old spinster does not particularly crave novelty or adventure. Especially not a spinster whose name has been tarnished for ten years, since Paul Forbes left her with child and ran off to seek his fortune god knows where. Judith miscarried, whether from her broken heart or the beatings from her parents; when she recovered, she packed up the pieces of her heart, her spare underwear and her Sunday dress, left the family farm and went to work at the inn.

Mr Horsley, the innkeeper, comes down from his room. He was devastated when his wife died in childbirth a year ago, but now he’s beginning to show some interest in women. Judith dodges the good morning kiss he tries to plant on her lips and welcomes the first patrons. She wipes the sticky table tops and the wooden benches, sweeps and washes the floor, and keeps an eye on old Dan, who is throwing down the first of the drinks he will have through the day. Jake and Ben are sitting at the table below the stairs, throwing dice and darting sly glances at her. She ignores them, knowing that before lunch-time they’ll ask her for credit and she’ll take her broom to them and kick them out.

The two men who come in around noon do so unobtrusively enough to startle her. Her hand darts into her skirt pocket and closes on the little knife she always carries. No, neither of them seems to be an immediate threat. She gives them a slow once-over; sometimes, if she looks at a man and he looks back at her, she takes him behind the stable and they enjoy each other for an hour or so. Never for money and never more than once. That’s all the novelty and adventure she needs.

These two don’t look back at her in _that_ way. They’re both middle-aged, although still handsome. One is very tall, with thinning fair hair and cool, observant blue eyes, the other is not quite so tall and a little stockier, and his hair and beard are carrot-red, flecked with grey. They have the muscular bodies and rough hands of men used to hard manual labour, but neither of them looks like a farmer. Carrot-top’s stride has a little roll to it: he is, or has been, a sailor. They sit opposite each other at the table farthest from the door, Carrot-top with his back to the wall.

Judith likes the way they quietly observe whatever comings and goings there are. Before she walks over to their table she wipes her greasy hands on her apron and attempts to tidy up her hair, then laughs at herself. As if.

“What’ll it be, gentlemen?”

“What’s on offer?”

“Chicken, fried or stewed; potatoes or barley bread; cheese, and ale or water.”

“Stewed chicken, bread and ale, if you please,” the taller one says, with the smiling grace and the speech of a born gentleman, even though his shirt is badly patched and his boots need mending. When she brings the food, he thanks her, then lowers his voice a little: “My cousin and I have heard that an elderly man has passed away and that his cabin might be up for sale.”

“That’d be Elias Fairbrother,” Judith informs him. “His widow is frail, so she moved in with her daughter.”

“Good,” Carrot-top says, taking a long pull of ale. “We’d like to make her an offer.” His voice is beautiful, warm and deep. He chews on a chicken leg, glances at his cousin and adds, “And, until the bargain is closed, we’d like to stay in one of your rooms.” Judith can’t tell for sure, but something like a tiny grin flashes between them.

“Both rooms upstairs are empty. And you can easily walk to the daughter’s farm, it’s only a couple of miles. But …” she needs to be blunt here, “you’ll have to give them a down payment. And Mr Horsley, the landlord, wants to be paid in advance.”

“Of course.” Carrot-top is wearing a wide, studded belt, that must have cost a pretty penny some years ago. He sticks a hand into it and extracts a silver piece. “Will that cover room and board for a week or so, as well as today’s meal?”

Judith nods, noting the swift exchange of glances between Jake and Ben at the other table. “Be careful,” she whispers as she bends down to collect their empty tankards.

“Don’t worry.” Carrot-top’s lips draw back over sharp white teeth and for a moment he looks different, almost frightening; then his expression changes again and he gives her a small reassuring grin. “We’ll be back this evening.”

“I’ll have your room ready by then, Mr …?”

“McGraw. We’re both called that. He’s Thomas, I’m James.” There’s light and warmth in the way Thomas slightly raises one eyebrow and James looks Thomas over, half-smiles and looks away. Judith half-smiles back and watches them rise to go.

Jake and Ben stop throwing dice, wait a little and slink out after them. Judith sighs: she’s sorry for what’s going to happen to the McGraws, but it can’t be helped, James was careless in showing off what little wealth he had and took no heed of her warning. Pity.

At supper-time the McGraws return, not a mark or a trace of blood on either of them, and drink a quick toast to their purchase of Fairbrother’s cabin. Jake and Ben don’t show up at the inn that night. The next day someone spots them behind a barn, Jake covered in bruises, Ben nursing a broken arm. Soon afterwards they leave town, to nobody’s great regret: they’re rumoured to have shady connections in several villages, but with any luck that’s the last Markham’s Cross will have seen of them.

 

Spring in the Blue Ridge Mountains comes late, after weeks of rain. The few blossoms on the two trees in the front yard are puny, drenched and miserable. It’s the end of March, and rain is hammering on the roof and pelting against the bolted shutters, with wind driving hard and whistling down the chimney. The common room of the inn is full of people waiting for the downpour to let up, or simply afraid of the long trudge home along paths that have become little swollen streams. Judith must run from kitchen to tables, repeating to herself who ordered what at each table, and grinning or frowning at the snatches of conversation she overhears.

Mr Horsley smiles at her. Their relations have improved since the day she stood up to him and told him that she’d have to leave if he kept trying to kiss her. He muttered a sort of apology and now contents himself just with looking.

The McGraw cousins have been in the common room a while. They come regularly on market days: they’re not very successful farmers, but they have other things to barter. Thomas can write letters and help people keep accounts of their incomes and expenses. James (Judith still occasionally thinks of him as Carrot-top) is, surprisingly, a skilled carpenter: he can fix leaky roofs and wobbly doors and shutters, and takes orders for beds and tables. They have not made any firm friends, but are on good terms with nearly everybody, and always exchange a couple of words with whoever is around.

Tonight they’re sitting near the fireplace, opposite each other, arguing in a low voice. James’ feet tap under the table, his hands clenched on his thighs. Thomas takes deep breaths before talking, intense and serious. As she rushes back and forth past them, Judith can catch a few disconnected bits of conversation. The things they say are like parts of a painting, a foot here, a hat there, an eye, a bit of cloth; if you don’t know what the whole picture is meant to be, the little details can’t be put together, they don’t make any sense.

“I can’t. I can’t not think ...”

“I know.”

“Fury. Revenge. Yes. But all those innocent people.”

“None of them was fucking innocent. They all took part in …” Mr Horsley calls out from the kitchen, "Three bowls of soup for the leather merchants," and Judith hurries to fetch them.

Later on it’s still raining hard, and she’s pouring rum for a bearded man at a table near the McGraws. He’s easy on the eye and is smelling fairly clean. He keeps looking at her, and she is about to wink at him when she hears something that James is saying, his voice full of anger. She takes one step away from the man and whispers that the fire needs tending. As she adds firewood and moves the logs around she listens in unashamedly.

“And you wrote that fucking letter. What the hell were you hoping?” James pauses for a moment. “If he ever shows up around here, I’ll kill him where he stands.”

“No.” Thomas’ voice is calm, assured. “You didn’t, when you could have. And now, you can …”

“He destroyed everything he touched, every fucking thing,” James almost shouts, then he looks down and says just one more word, soft, desperate. “Us.”

Thomas puts a hand on the table, palm up. “He’s not to blame. I’m sorry. I wish …”

James stretches his hand out, it’s shaking. Their fingertips touch. “I _know_. All too well. You can’t not think in terms of right and wrong. That’s who you are. And …” And someone at the other end of the room shouts for food, so Judith needs to hurry to serve him.

Near closing time Judith is picking up dirty platters and sweeping all leftovers into the scrap bucket for Mr Horsley’s pigs. The McGraws are still sitting by the fireplace.

“I still …” Thomas says softly, then stops, shaking his head.

James looks down at his hands, twists the one ring he wears on his right hand. “You do. So do I. But.” He stands up and lays a light hand on Thomas’s shoulder, two deep lines between his eyebrows, eyelashes fluttering over downcast eyes. “Rain’s easing. Let’s go home.”

 

It’s early morning. There’s a slight mist but the sun is already warm. Typical for June; July and August are usually scorching. Judith is wiping the long bench beside the door when she sees the McGraws walking towards her. They’re carrying a small trunk and a heavy canvas bag that looks as if it contained nothing but books. They get to the bench and sit on it, tired and washed out, barely nodding at Judith and not saying anything to her or each other. Judith knows that there are days when there’s absolutely nothing anyone can say, because things are broken beyond repair. She had days like that after she lost her baby. She goes inside, gets a jug of fresh water and two mugs and quietly sets them on the bench between the men.

Matt Keane’s cart, pulled by his two mules, trundles towards the inn. James and Thomas stare at the cart for a long moment and then slowly get up. Matt helps them lift the trunk and the canvas bag into the cart, then climbs back onto the seat.

James and Thomas stand there, gazing at each other, as if they were alone on the top of some mountain. As if they were about to jump off it.

“So,” Thomas says, with a little lopsided smile.

“So,” James repeats, his voice thick and unsteady, staring back at him.

“Write to me.” Thomas takes a half step towards James, then stops.

“I will. You too. When you get to Amsterdam.” James steps forward, his arms go around Thomas and hold him tight against his body. “You were.” He swallows, tightens his hold. “You are. You …”

“Go inside,” Thomas whispers. “Please.”

James nods, releases him, turns sharply around and walks into the common room.

“Rum. A bottle.” He takes it to the back table, sits with his back against the wall and empties it steadily, without spilling one drop, staring alternately at the window and at the surface of the table. Judith brings him a tankard full of water and says gently, “Drink this too.” He looks up at her in thanks: his face is white under his tan, and as empty as a dry well. She lightly touches his shoulder with her fingertips.

He doesn’t pass out when the bottle is empty: he buys another one, grabs it by the neck and stalks out, the roll in his step just a little more pronounced. As she pokes the embers in the fireplace, Judith wonders where Amsterdam might be, and refuses to wonder whether saying goodbye to a cousin warrants all this despair. A few chills run down her spine despite the mid-morning heat.

 

It’s October. The two trees in the front yard are almost bare, the wind is whipping the branches, and Judith shivers in her thin woollen dress as the door opens and cold night air rushes in. For the past couple of months she has been eating mostly bread and dripping, putting the few coins she saves into an old jug and dreaming of leather boots and a warm skirt. And tonight, just as she is beginning to eye Reid the cloth merchant and wonder how much cloth he would give her for an hour or a night of her time, she feels a delicate tap on her shoulder.

“I'd be happy if you went to church with me on Sunday,” Mr Horsley says hesitantly. “Wearing this, maybe.” He holds out a badly-wrapped parcel: it’s a woollen shawl, long and thick and soft, the same shade of brown as her eyes. “I mean, it’s a present. You don’t have to earn it in any way, by going to church, or doing … anything else. I just …” He stops, shakes his head, looks away.

“I’m not welcome in church,” Judith whispers. “Don’t believe in it much anyway. But I’ll go with you. Not to earn your present. I’ll go because you’ll be with me, and you’re a good man, Mr Horsley.”

Someone has closed the door. A youngish man with long dark hair, a wooden crutch and almost half his left leg missing is standing in the middle of the common room. An invalid beggar, obviously: Judith tries to remember whether she threw out all of last night’s leftovers. Then she has a better look at him: his clothes are clean, his hair, mustache and beard have recently been trimmed, and his eyes, very blue and very serious, take in everything and are inquiring rather than beseeching.

“I’m looking for James McGraw,” he says slowly.

“He usually comes in later. A little before closing time.”

“Every night?”

“Almost every night since his cousin left.” Judith peeks at the man’s open coat, at the long knife in his belt. But he’s a cripple, he can’t be much of a threat. “He a friend of yours?”

He just looks at her. “I’d like some ale. Please.” He moves towards a table at the back, nimbly dodging both a stray dog and old Dan, who is in his cups and still more or less on his feet. He sits down and when the tankard is in front of him stares into it for a long time, without touching it or moving in any way.

The door opens again. James McGraw stands in the doorway and, like every night, surveys the room, eyes sweeping over furniture and patrons. Every night he greets a couple of acquaintances, chats for a short while, sits by himself, eats sparingly, drinks in moderation, and leaves.

Tonight, he stops in his tracks in the doorway, until a gust of wind almost blows the door off its hinges and pushes him in. In three strides he’s standing beside the man with the crutch.

“You,” he snarls, and Judith stands very still between the tables, a plate in one hand and a jug in the other, her stomach clenching.

The other man does not blink. “McGraw,” he says, and his eyes move down, towards the other stool by his table. “I got Hamilton’s letter,” he continues, very softly. Judith remembers the night of the rainstorm and the _fucking letter_ James was angry about, but who is _Hamilton_? Could it be a false name that Thomas used?

“You know what he wrote?” the other man asks.

“I could guess.” McGraw is still standing, hands on hips, glaring down. Judith shudders. Is McGraw his real name? Who on earth _are_ these men?

“When’d he leave?”

“Three months ago.”

“And you’re staying here.”

“Yes. And you’re going back to wherever it is that you came from.”

A while later the invalid is still around, still in one piece. McGraw is sitting opposite him, they’re sharing a jug of ale and taking slow, silent inventory of each other. Judith wonders when they’re going to step outside and pull out their knives; then she starts wondering _if_ rather than _when_. McGraw is still bristling with resentment (what can the invalid ever have done to him? And to the other McGraw, whatever his real name was?), but there are moments when he glances across at the other man and his eyes light up with an intensity that Judith has never seen before. The other man does not fear McGraw’s anger: he answers questions and responds to outbursts carefully and firmly, his eyes unswervingly fixed on McGraw’s.

Some time later McGraw raises a hand to summon Judith, digs into his belt and produces a silver piece. He’s been here for over a year and hasn’t run out of silver pieces yet. “Mr Little,” there’s a little sneer in the way he says it, it’s obviously another false name, “will be spending a couple of nights here before going on his way. This should pay for his room and two meals a day.” The other man raises an eyebrow: “I accept your kind offer.”

 

Six days later it’s Sunday. Mr Little, if that’s his name, is still at the inn. James McGraw continues working at all his jobs, but comes to the common room every night and stays until closing time. Little’s first name is as yet unknown; McGraw just calls him _you_ , or sometimes other names, such as _you bastard_ or _you shit_. They challenge each other constantly, about some place called Maroon Island, and some other island, and someone whose name could be Maddie. Occasionally they laugh: McGraw’s laugh is low-pitched and short, Little’s is loud, and opens up his face, and takes ten years off it. The words Judith hears most often are _it matters_ : each man sometimes half-shouts them as an accusation, sometimes half-whispers them as an acknowledgment.

Mr Horsley and Judith are walking back to the inn from the Sunday service. They’re going back the long way, through the woods, enjoying the bracing autumn air and whatever small patches of red and orange foliage are left on the trees. Mr Horsley says that he would like it if she called him Phil when they’re not working and Judith nods and says his name slowly, tentatively. They reach a clearing in a clump of hickories, with a little pond: it would have been pleasant to sit by the pond in the sun, but others have got there before them.

McGraw and Little are sitting on the grass, side by side, in silence. Little is leaning back on his arms, his stump peeking out of his cut-off trouser leg. Both seem exhausted, yet at the same time relaxed, almost peaceful. Their shoulders are close enough to brush, and Judith for some reason imagines the two of them fighting together, shoulder to shoulder, against some common enemy.

They greet one another and chat about the weather. Mc Graw mentions the possibility of an early frost; there’s a sort of teasing tenderness in his eyes as he tells them that Mr Little will be staying in Markham’s Cross a little longer. Little looks down, a small playful smile lingering at a corner of his mouth.

Mr Horsley and Judith wish them a good Sunday and walk away. As they go they hear a conversation resuming, or maybe ending. McGraw’s deep, serious voice quotes something that sounds, imperfectly, like Genesis: _It is not good that he is alone. And the moral of the story: everyone needs a partner_. Little’s voice, just as serious, replies, “He said exactly the same words to me in his letter." And with a hint of laughter he adds, "How unimaginative.”

The inn is open as usual and Rufus, the kitchen hand, is dealing with the patrons. Neither McGraw nor Little show up in the evening. And that night Little’s room stays empty.

Judith thinks about this as she tidies up, takes the slop bucket to the pigs, gives the front steps a last swipe with the broom and locks the door of her little room by the stairs. Over the years, she has caught sight of a few men doing things to each other in the alley behind the inn. And she remembers the schoolmaster and the Quaker preacher who were tarred and feathered and run out of Markham’s Cross the year she turned twenty. Then, as she gets into her narrow bed, she remembers McGraw’s face the day Thomas left, and thinks about Little’s intense blue eyes and the steadfast determination in his soft voice. She’s not sure what she wishes for them, but she goes to sleep wishing them well, whoever they are and whatever they are doing. 

 

November is cold and wet but so far it hasn’t snowed. The woods are bare except for the fir trees, the countryside is frequently wrapped in mist, and hardly any visitors come to Markham’s Cross as the roads are muddy and slippery. Judith is surprised when Ben and Jake show up again in the common room one evening, and wonders what may happen if they were to come across James McGraw. Then she shrugs: McGraw and Little aren’t often around, they keep to themselves and come in for dinner only once or twice a week.

Ben and Jake play cards and don’t bother the other patrons. After a while another man joins them. He’s a stranger, tall, hefty, with lizards tattooed on his neck and forearms. Two more strangers appear soon after him, a dark-haired man wearing heavy silver necklaces and a smaller man in a bright red woollen jacket. Then someone shouts out Ben’s name from the front yard and all five of them get up and step outside to where three other men are waiting. Judith sneaks a quick look out of the window: two are new faces, but she has seen the third one before, and has heard about him too. "Black Pete": he’s called that because he’s a blacksmith somewhere in Bath County, and also because he’s rumoured to have been a pirate and to have sailed under Blackbeard.

Eight of them. They are standing in a tight circle, muttering to one another. Jake says something and then points north-east, in the direction of McGraw’s cabin. Black Pete scowls, growls something and slaps Jake’s hand down. Judith jumps away from the window, but they haven’t noticed her: they’re going up the path, Jake and Black Pete leading.

Eight of them, against an invalid and a man who is no longer in his prime. Judith pauses, then runs across the common room into the kitchen. Phil and Rufus are basting a roast. “Phil,” she whispers, forgetting about his rule, pulling her new shawl from its peg and wrapping it tightly around her shoulders. “Jake and Black Pete and six others. They’re going to attack McGraw and Little. We’ve got to warn them.”

He hesitates for a moment. Then he straightens up, tells Rufus to mind the inn for a few hours, grabs his cloak and takes his old musket off its hook. “I know who McGraw and Little are. Come with me, we’ll help them.”

“Good,” she says. “I know some shortcuts across the woods.” As a girl, she used to play there with her brothers and their friends, outrunning most of the boys, until Paul Forbes started making eyes at her, and then things went very wrong very quickly.

They walk as swiftly and quietly as they can through clumps of birches and stands of pine trees. Judith’s heart is beating fast, but in all these years she’s learned not to show anything much, especially not fear. They are getting close to the cabin when they hear Black Pete bellowing a threat: “Hey, you in there! Cap’n Flint and Long John Silver!”. Judith’s blood runs cold: they’re too late.

Cautiously, they move forward, hiding behind trees. Black Pete and the others are in a semi-circle in front of the cabin door. A man is slipping away, heading round the back. Judith and Phil stop. Phil rests his musket on a tree branch. They wait.

“What the fuck do you want?” McGraw’s voice is totally calm, the voice of a man used to demanding answers.

“We know that you’ve got the treasure you left behind on Skeleton Island. Put all of it, _all of it_ , into a sack and come out, with nothin’ else in your hands.”

Silence. Judith sees thin grey lines of smoke rising from the back of the cabin and sniffs the acrid smell of things burning, and her guts twist. A red tongue of fire appears at a window, and a bigger one on the roof. Someone inside starts coughing.

“We’re coming out.”

The man who had started the fire reappears. Phil aims and shoots: the man drops and does not move again. As the attackers wheel around, cursing, the cabin door is thrown open and their quarry step out onto the small wooden porch. McGraw is carrying a bulging sack as well as a cutlass and a pistol; Little, crutch solidly wedged under his left armpit, is carrying a short sword and has a pistol tucked in his belt.

“Throw the sack over here,” Black Pete orders.

In one swift movement, McGraw throws the sack towards the men and leaps sideways. Two musket balls miss him and hit the doorframe. Red Jacket and another man race towards the sack; McGraw points the pistol at the sack and fires; the sack explodes in the two men’s faces. Red Jacket clutches his stomach, screams, and dies. The other man tries to crawl towards his comrades, but stops, shudders and lies still before reaching them.

The fire is spreading fast through the cabin. McGraw shouts something at Little and flings himself towards Jake, easily ducks a swipe of his sword, surges forward swinging his cutlass and cuts Jake’s throat. Little hops nimbly off the porch to face the sword of the man with the lizard tattoos. Judith clamps a hand on her mouth, sure that the other man will cut Little to ribbons. Her eyes widen as Little slashes across the man’s legs, parries his blow with his short sword and, with a powerful downward cut, slices deep into the man’s belly. The man falls backwards into the house, into the middle of the flames; Little sees this, turns around, pulls his pistol out of his belt and gives him a quick death. Another shot rings out: McGraw has killed Ben, who was bearing down on him with a pistol.

The man with the silver necklaces is unobtrusively moving, dagger in hand, to the left side of Little, where his stump is. Heart thumping, Judith grips her little knife and, without giving herself the time to think about dangers and deaths, sprints towards the man and sinks the blade into his neck. He howls, turns around and drives a fist into her face; she staggers back, spitting blood, and falls against a tree trunk. Blood streaming down his neck, he raises his dagger. She gasps, unable to scream, confusedly hoping that her death will be quick and that Phil will mourn her a little. But someone swings something heavy at the man’s head, and he stumbles and falls. Behind him, Little retrieves his crutch, finds his balance, and runs him through with his sword.

Phil rushes forward. “Are you all right?”

Judith nods. He helps her up and supports her while they watch the flames devour the cabin. Black Pete is the last attacker standing: he is exchanging thrusts and parries with McGraw, and both are bleeding, Pete from a gash on his arm, McGraw from a long graze on his leg. Pete squints around to see if Little is also going to attack him and for a fatal second leaves himself open: McGraw’s blade enters his throat in a clean thrust.

The four of them stand together, staring at the carnage around them and at the smoking ruins of the cabin. McGraw’s face is streaked with blood and sweat. Little is panting heavily. Judith spits out a little more blood, shivering uncontrollably. Until these two men arrived, all that there had been at Markham's Cross was a little theft and a little violence, none of it like this slaughter and destruction. She weeps, for her village and for all of them.

“Are you really all right?” Phil’s arm is tight around her waist, a little embarrassing and quite comforting.

“Yes,” she mumbles, wiping her eyes. “I lost a tooth, maybe two. Got plenty left.”

Little has found a canteen with water and is washing McGraw’s wound, muttering incomprehensible things about a _walrus_ and a _fucking warship_. He hears what Judith is saying and smiles up at her with an open, dazzling grin. “You’ll always be beautiful, Miss Judith. Thank you."

He is, or was, a pirate. Like Black Pete and like the man Pete called Captain Flint. If he hadn’t been a pirate, and (she blushes at the thought) if he hadn’t been spoken for, she might have fallen for him. She shakes her head at herself.

“You lost your home,” she says. “And it wouldn’t be safe for you to remain in Markham’s Cross after tonight.”

“We’ll ask Matt Keane to collect you first thing tomorrow,” Phil says.

“Thank you.” McGraw’s smile is less overtly charming than his friend’s, but there’s some gentleness in it, and some compassion.

“Captain Flint …” Phil begins.

McGraw laughs, his low, confident laugh. “McGraw’s my real name. The name I was born with, in England. Flint came later. He’s dead and buried now.”

“Just like the treasure these fools believed we had," Little says mockingly, standing upright beside McGraw. “I wouldn’t even know if there’s a map.”

McGraw gives Little a small sidelong glance and changes the subject. “Whatever money we may have has nothing to do with that treasure.” He strokes his beard and explains, “Thomas’s name was Lord Thomas Hamilton. He and I were in a prison farm near Savannah. Long story. When we escaped, we … collected whatever pay we should have been given, plus some compensation for the time we had to spend there.”

Little’s eyes darken. “I knew someone on an island …” the faint lines on his forehead become deep furrows, “and when she asked me to leave, she gave me a small bag of gold. She said I’d be needing it more than she would.” He shrugs. “Another long story.”

“Is Long John Silver dead as well?” Phil asks cautiously.

“He wasn’t when I got here. He is now. Like Mr McGraw here, I’ve gone back to my original name. Solomon Little.”

 

Matt Keane’s cart is not yet at the inn. McGraw and Little are sitting on the bench in the front yard, not saying much and scowling at each other: it sounds as if they’ve spent most of the night arguing where to go next. They are travelling light: one bag each, which probably contains their weapons and a few scorched clothes.

“Stop going on about it,” McGraw snaps. “I don’t even fucking speak Italian.”

“Nobody speaks Italian in Italy,” Little snaps back. “Italian’s a written language only. Everyone speaks the local dialect. If we go to Venice, we’ll learn Venetian. If we go to Genoa, we’ll learn Genoese. Either way, they’re independent sea republics, we’ll easily get work.”

McGraw glares at him. Judith doesn’t know why, but she’s pretty sure that Little will have his way. She has heard of Italy, a country of great beauty and great evils, first and foremost the Pope. These two men have lived in the New World and now they are going to travel in the old one, something that Judith will never manage to do. Some people are destined to see the world and never to have a home. Others will never go anywhere, but they know where they belong, in good times and bad. She turns towards Phil and he nods at her: maybe their thoughts were running in the same direction.

As Matt’s cart comes into view, Judith hands McGraw a package: “Some bread and cheese for your journey. May all your journeys be safe ones.” And she adds a last, whispered wish: “May your other names be forgotten.”

Little shakes his head. “ _May his name be erased_ is a curse. Maybe some day, somewhere, some people will say _Flint and Silver_ with respect, and remember how we fought, and why.” He turns towards his friend and adds firmly, “In spite of conflict and betrayal.”

“Let’s go,” McGraw says gruffly, tucking a long strand of hair behind Little’s ear. They shake hands with Phil, nod to Judith, and climb into the cart. McGraw raises a hand in salute without looking back.

Judith and Phil walk back into the common room. Water must be boiled, food must be prepared, drinks must be fetched. Another day has begun at Markham’s Cross.


End file.
